


Showered in Daylight

by thepartyresponsible



Series: Shatter Together [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21787153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepartyresponsible/pseuds/thepartyresponsible
Summary: It’s past four in the morning when someone starts messing with the lock on Jason’s door. He rolls over to stare, one hand curling around the gun under his pillow while the other grabs his phone, checks his texts.There’s just one. Clint, finally checking in.On my way.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Jason Todd
Series: Shatter Together [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570099
Comments: 62
Kudos: 834





	Showered in Daylight

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on tumblr as a fill for [hargreeeves](hargreeeves.tumblr.com), who asked for happy Jason/Clint.
> 
> The title is taken from "Shatter Together" by My Jerusalem.

It’s past four in the morning when someone starts messing with the lock on Jason’s door. He rolls over to stare, one hand curling around the gun under his pillow while the other grabs his phone, checks his texts.

There’s just one. Clint, finally checking in. _On my way_.

Jason stayed up half the night waiting for that text. He’s too sleep-dazed now to have much of a reaction to it, other than to sit up far enough to put the gun on the bedside table.

Clint’s hands wander in his sleep, and he’s just as likely to get his hands on Jason’s gun as he is to stick them straight up Jason’s shirt or down his pants. It’s led to some interesting mornings, and Jason’s started taking preventative measures.

He’s very deliberately not thinking about what it means that’s he developed an entire _how to_ guide for sleeping next to Clint. 

He’s half asleep again by the time Clint finally picks his way in. He’s grumpy and mussed, and he locks the door behind him with quick, irritated movements that slump into exhausted fumbling by the time he dumps himself, stripped to his boxers, into bed.

“Hey,” he says, curling an arm around Jason’s waist and then mouthing lazily at his neck. “Sorry, got hung up at work.”

“Hm,” Jason says. Clint’s shivery, and he burrows in shamelessly the second Jason shoves the covers back. “Kill anyone I know?”

“Hope not,” Clint says. He tangles their feet together and yawns, going soft and languid beside him. “Guy was a real asshole,” he mumbles, lips moving against the bare skin of Jason’s chest.

Jason presses a loud, smacking kiss to the top of Clint’s head and smirks at the grumble he gets, the way Clint shifts like he’s annoyed but still worms his way closer. “Good work,” he says, and Clint breathes out, falls asleep so easy it’s like he thinks he belongs.

\- - -

Clint is useless in the morning, which is unusual but not unheard of. As far as Jason can track, Clint came into town two days ago and hasn’t slept since. He doesn’t even seem to notice that Jason’s leaving until he’s already mostly disentangled. Clint rolls toward him, makes a soft, sad noise like a puppy left outside, and then he’s back asleep the second Jason tugs the blankets up to cover him.

He’s just a lump under the sheets, blonde hair sticking up, fingers reaching out to grab onto the pillow that’s probably still warm from where Jason slept on it. Jason’s frozen for a second, struck by the sight but not entirely sure why, and then he heads off to shower before he gets caught staring like a creep.

Clint’s still asleep when Jason comes out of the shower. Jason figures he must be genuinely exhausted, because he doesn’t even stir long enough to catcall from the bed while Jason gets dressed, which is usually one of his favorite things.

It’s some kind of game for him, seeing if he can get Jason flustered or annoyed enough to come back to bed and shut him up. He’s got a hell of a mouth for a guy who didn’t talk much at all during the first couple weeks Jason knew him.

Jason eyes him from the kitchen as he starts the coffee. Clint’s shifted over to Jason’s side of the bed, and he’s curled up, chin ducked, throat covered, hands pressed to his chest.

It’s an interesting position. Defensive.

Clint never sleeps like that when Jason’s in there with him.

Jason pours the coffee when it’s ready and then digs around in the pantry until he finds the sugar. He mixes up that unholy concoction that never fails to revive Clint - sugar, heavy cream, vanilla extract that he’ll need to buy more of soon - and then he leaves the cup on the bedside table like an offering at an altar.

When he gets back to the kitchen, he watches a single hand emerge from under the blankets and scout the area, fingers skimming over the gun disinterestedly and then curling, with visible excitement, around the mug. The blankets shift and then the mug disappears, and Jason would yell at him not to spill coffee in his damn bed, but it’s coffee, and it’s Clint, and so there won’t be a single drop wasted.

He meanders around the kitchen, making breakfast and drinking his own coffee, and he’s standing over a skillet, yawning, when Clint emerges from the bed and saunters over, eyes still half-closed. He mumbles something friendly into the side of Jason’s neck and then steals the coffee mug right out of Jason’s hand.

“You should put milk in that,” Jason advises.

Clint huffs out a dismissive breath. “You should put your dick in my mouth,” he counters, and takes a hearty swig of the remnants of Jason’s coffee.

It’s fascinating, the things Clint says before he fully wakes up. It’s maybe Jason’s favorite thing about Clint sleeping over.

Well, second favorite.

Jason leans his head back to consider him. “You got the coordination for that?” he asks. “Because I don’t think you’ve opened your eyes yet.”

Clint’s a rumpled mess. His hair is pointing every possible direction, and there are red lines down his face from the seams on Jason’s pillow. His eyes are closed, and they stay that way, but he flips Jason off with remarkable accuracy.

He hands the mug back to Jason once it’s empty and then leans into him, forehead on Jason’s shoulder, fingers looped through Jason’s belt loops. “’s that breakfast?”

“Yep,” Jason says, flipping the French toast. He wouldn’t bother, normally, but it’s easier to justify things like this when there’s someone around to do them for.

“Enough for two?” Clint asks, sounding hopeful, pressing into Jason like some kind of bribe.

“No, asshole,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. “I figured I’d just let you look at it.”

Clint’s fingertips skitter around Jason’s hips, anxious, not settling, and it occurs to Jason that maybe that’s a thing that happened to Clint once. Maybe people used to make food and eat it in front of him while he sat there, hungry.

“Yeah, there’s enough,” Jason says.

Clint makes another noise, a soft moan of happiness, and Jason wonders if he’s being conditioned. He’d make breakfast every damn morning if Clint made noises like that. He’d do pretty much anything.

“Here,” Jason says, because it’s nice, having Clint’s weight on him, but it is also incredibly distracting. He shifts around, palms Clint’s ass just for the hell of it, and then hooks his hands around the backs of his thighs and lifts.

Clint makes a startled noise when he finds himself airborne but doesn’t have much time to get alarmed about it before Jason’s settling him on the empty countertop next to the stovetop. “Sorry,” he says, finally blinking his eyes open. “In the way?”

“Nah, just wanted the view,” Jason says, because Clint’s sensitive about the weirdest shit. Always thinks he’s in the way or wasting Jason’s time. Has a bad habit of compulsively apologizing for eating too much food, drinking too much coffee, using too much hot water, taking up too much space.

Jason figures sometimes, when people tell you in a thousand different ways that you shouldn’t exist, you grow up to spit in the faces of everyone who ever made you feel worthless. And sometimes you start apologizing to anyone who’s nice to you, because you’ve got it in your head that any effort expended on you is an inconvenience. Jason leans hard to the former, but it’s all the same thing, really. A hit will bruise different people in different ways, but it still feels the same when it lands.

Clint smiles at him, sleepy and amiable and easy to charm. “Fuck off,” he says, kicking his legs. He looks amused, a little skeptical. Bashful, kind of, in the way he’s ducking his head and curling his hands around the lip of the counter.

Jason kisses him. He tastes like sugar and vanilla and coffee, gets his hands in Jason’s shirt like he’s scared he’s going to pull away.

“Hey,” Jason says, as he drops two new slices in the skillet and reaches into a side-drawer for something he picked up awhile back. “Look, about you picking my lock at four in the morning–”

“Yeah,” Clint says, shoulders squaring up immediately. “Sorry. I thought I was gonna be done way before that. I won’t— you know, next time, I can get a room or something. Stop by in the morning.”

Jason raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, that’s actually not what–”

“Hey, I get it,” Clint says, and now he’s nervous. Someone must’ve flipped scripts on him pretty fast, if he thinks Jason’s going to go from kissing him to yelling at him in about thirty seconds. “It’s fine. You don’t have to–”

“I’m giving you a key,” Jason says. He holds it up, so Clint can see. Clint squints as if it’s some peculiar artifact he’s encountering in a museum.

“You’re giving me a _key_?” There’s a look on his face like Jason’s just proposed marriage, or ritual cannibalism, or something else absurd and horrific. 

“Well, shit,” Jason says, fingers curling around the key, “you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

“If you give me a key,” Clint says, slowly, “I can get in whenever I want.”

“Clint,” Jason says, “you can _already_ get in whenever you want. This just expedites the process.”

“Yeah, but,” Clint says. “But then I’ll be _invited_. So it’s anytime. Not just when I know you’re home.”

Jason blinks at him. “Are you telling me,” he says, “that there are times when you come by, break in, see that I’m not here, and then _leave_?”

Clint shifts. His eyes dart to the coffeemaker, like he thinks his best ally in this apartment is going to grow legs and come to his rescue. “Maybe,” he says, bare feet twisting in the air. “I am maybe saying that.”

Jason drops the key on the counter and rescues the French toast before it can burn. “You know,” he says, as he’s dividing the food between two plates, pulling the bacon out of the oven where he put it to keep warm. “It’s fine for you to be here when I’m not. I don’t care. It’s not gonna piss me off to come home and find you on the couch. Or in the shower. Or in bed.”

Clint’s quiet, in that watchful way he gets when he’s tracking some kind of threat. “It’s your place,” he says, finally.

“Yeah,” Jason says, because they don’t talk about who they were when they were young, the shit that happened to them, the way they’ve been chiseled and forged and splinted into the forms they are now. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t pieced together some of it. There’s a code to it, a language you can translate if you’ve lived the same things.

He knows what it’s like. He knows how heavy the word _home_ is when you don’t have one.

“Yeah,” Jason says, again. “It’s my place, and I’m giving you a key.”

Clint’s studying him, expression unhelpfully blank, blue eyes intently focused. He doesn’t say anything.

Jason sighs and leans over, kisses him again just to get that look off his face. “Stop breaking in,” he says. “You’re scaring the neighbors.”

Clint’s still for another second and then he rolls his eyes. “They aren’t scared. They love me. You told Mrs. Oliveria that I’m your priest.”

“Exactly,” Jason says. Because he did, and it’s still funny, and he’s not sorry. “And imagine what kinda troubled soul she thinks I have, where my priest’s gotta break in at four in the fucking morning.”

Clint goes silent again while Jason finishes plating breakfast, but, when Jason carries the plates to the table, he grabs the key off the counter before following.

“Put some clothes on,” Jason says. “It’s fucking cold.”

Clint raises his eyebrows as he settles cross-legged on the chair, steals the plate off the table, and holds it to his chest like maybe his etiquette coach was a prison guard. He looks down at himself, at the approximate half-mile of bare freckled skin, and lean muscles, and ridiculous purple boxers.

“Huh,” he says, biting into his breakfast. “You really think I came all the way to Gotham to put my clothes _on_?”

Jason rolls his eyes. “So help me,” he says, “if this ends with syrup on my sheets, I am taking that key back.”

Clint grins over at him, fork poised mid-air, syrup dripping back onto the plate. “Yeah,” he says, one hand curling protectively around the key, “good luck with that.”

 _Yeah_ , Jason thinks, heart kicking against his ribs, gaze caught on the crooked angle of Clint’s smile, the bright blue of his eyes. _Good luck with that_.


End file.
